


Laundry Day

by bloodscout



Category: Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime)
Genre: Domestic, Fluff, Humor, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-09
Updated: 2017-07-09
Packaged: 2018-11-29 19:08:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,820
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11447190
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bloodscout/pseuds/bloodscout
Summary: There are veritable mountains of clothes piled around the room, more clothes than Yuuri thinks he even owns. Viktor fiddles with the settings on the machine, and it makes a noise that Yuuri has never heard before, before the load begins to spin and the machine fills with water.“What…” Yuuri begins, growing increasingly more concerned. “What are you doing?”Viktor plops on the ground to sit cross legged and watch the machine spin. He cranes his neck around to look at Yuuri. “I told you.” He says, as if Yuuri is somehow thick for not understanding why his fiancé was sitting naked on the floor of their laundry surrounded by a metric tonne of unwashed clothes. “It’s laundry day.”





	Laundry Day

**Author's Note:**

  * For [TransScribe](https://archiveofourown.org/users/TransScribe/gifts).



> this fic is the product of a conversation between my sibling (to whom this fic is gifted) and i about our various viktor headcanons. i hope it's as funny to you as it was to us.

Yuuri has been living in St Petersburg for three months, and he has never seen Viktor do any laundry. He assumed that Viktor was doing it late at night, or when Yuuri was at the rink alone, or maybe that he was getting it all professionally laundered. Yuuri didn’t think to ask how Viktor never wore the same outfit twice, or why he wouldn’t let Yuuri into his walk-in wardrobe anymore, or why they had 7 different kinds of washing powder that never seemed to get used. Yuuri didn’t pay much attention to Viktor’s clothes washing habits, and clothes washing is the furthest thing from his mind when Viktor wakes up to his alarm at 5am, strips down to his underwear, and scurries out of the room. Yuuri peers after his fiancé with bleary eyes, allows himself to be sleepily confused for a few moments, and promptly falls back asleep.

 

It is 7:30 when Yuuri wakes up again, and Viktor is not next to him, his side of the bed now cold. Yuuri pulls on his house socks and wanders into the kitchen, where Viktor is usually making coffee at this time of morning. Viktor is not there. He knocks on the bathroom door, in case Viktor is brushing his teeth. Viktor is not there. He peeks into the study, to see if Viktor is finishing off the book of Rimbaud poems he started the other night. Viktor is not there, either. So much is Yuuri’s detachment from Viktor’s clothes washing habits, that he doesn’t even think to look in the laundry until he hears the beeping that signifies the washing machine finishing a load. He follows the noise into the small room, where Viktor is shifting clothes from the machine into a washing basket. He looks freezing, still wearing nothing but black briefs. Obviously not hearing Yuuri’s quiet footsteps, Viktor hums to himself as he hangs the load of washing onto a clothes airer.

 

“Vitya,” Yuuri interrupts after a while. “Why aren’t you wearing any clothes?”

 

Viktor whips around, a smile breaking across his face. Yuuri can see the goosebumps spread across his bare chest.

 

“Morning, darling.” He greets. “It’s laundry day.”

 

Yuuri nods, a little perplexed. This appears to be all the explanation Yuuri is going to get. He leans on the doorframe as Viktor finishes hanging up the clothes, before putting another load into the washing machine. There are veritable mountains of clothes piled around the room, more clothes than Yuuri thinks he even owns. Viktor fiddles with the settings on the machine, and it makes a noise that Yuuri has never heard before, before the load begins to spin and the machine fills with water.

 

“What…” Yuuri begins, growing increasingly more concerned. “What are you doing?”

 

Viktor plops on the ground to sit cross legged and watch the machine spin. He cranes his neck around to look at Yuuri. “I told you.” He says, as if Yuuri is somehow thick for not understanding why his fiancé was sitting naked on the floor of their laundry surrounded by a metric tonne of unwashed clothes. “It’s laundry day.” Like that’s meant to explain anything.

 

Yuuri huffs, and Viktor goes back to watching the clothes spin. Yuuri heads into the bedroom to check his phone. There is a text from Mila.

 

_You two want to do lunch today?_

 

Yuuri wanders back into the laundry. “Want to have lunch with Mila today, Vitenka?”

 

Viktor stands, his expression dark. “Yuuri,” He says gravely, as if he is reporting a great tragedy. “It’s _laundry day_.”

 

Yuuri throws his arms up in frustration. “What does that _mean_?!”

 

“It means I have literally _no clothes_.” Viktor intones. “ _Everything_ needs to be washed.”

 

Yuuri feels like throwing his arms up again. “So put one of the clean loads into the dryer, then.” He suggests, frustrated.

 

“The _dryer_?” Viktor asks, as if Yuuri had just suggested he set his clothes on fire. “These are _silk delicates_ , Yuuri. I can’t put silk delicates in the dryer like they’re plain old rags!”

 

Viktor is ridiculous. Absolutely ridiculous. Yuuri has to stop himself from throwing his arms up again. “Fine, we won’t do lunch with Mila today, I’ll let her know.”

 

Yuuri retreats into the relative sanity of their bedroom, and replies to the email that his parents have written. Mari is spending the weekend in the city to see a band, so they’re quite busy at the inn, but it’s nice to hear about the familiar busywork of his home. A little while after Yuuri has settled down to watch a movie on Netflix, Viktor reappears in the bedroom. He slips into his wardrobe and reemerges in what is possibly the most ridiculous and most impractical outfit Yuuri has ever seen. He is wearing the “If found, please return to Yuuri” muscle tank that Christophe bought him as a joke after the Grand Prix, and the shortest pair of gold metallic shorts that the fashion world has possibly ever produced.

 

“What are you _wearing_?” Yuuri gasps.

 

 “This was the only thing that was clean.” Viktor runs his hands down his sides, emphasizing all the skin he is baring. “I need to go get more clothes airers from the garage storage, and I can’t exactly do that in my briefs.”

 

“It’s freezing outside!” Yuuri exclaims. “And those shorts aren’t much better than briefs anyway!”

 

Viktor turns his nose up. “I think they’re fine.”

 

“Can’t you just wear some dirty things so you’ll at least be warm?” Yuuri pleads.

 

“Yuuri, no!” Viktor cries, incensed. “I couldn’t be seen _dead_ in dirty clothes. It’s like you don’t even know me!”

 

“Well then, do you want to wear some of my clothes?” Yuuri says, trying not to become too frustrated by Viktor’s antics. For as long as he has been aware of Viktor, Viktor has made it clear that he has a penchant for dramatics.

 

Viktor puts his finger to his lips for a moment, considering. “Okay, that could be cute.”

 

“It doesn’t matter if it’s _cute_ , it will be practical.” Yuuri grumbles.

 

Yuuri goes into his wardrobe, which is noticeably less populated than Viktor’s, and pulls out his biggest sweater and a pair of jeans.

 

“Put these on.” He instructs, thrusting the clothes towards Viktor.

 

Viktor shimmies out of the tiny shorts and slips the muscle tank over his head before accepting the clothes that Yuuri offers. When Viktor is wearing the clothes, it is immediately obvious that he is taller than Yuuri. The sweater to too short in the sleeves, and sits like a midriff, revealing a sliver of Viktor’s stomach. The jeans are loose on Viktor’s narrow hips, and the cuffs brush well above his ankles.

 

“This won’t do, Yuuri.” Viktor says. “I’m better in those shorts.” He decides, and start undressing once again.

 

Yuuri doesn’t have time to protest, and he doesn’t think any argument he could make would be effective, anyway. When Viktor heads down to the garage, clad once again in the tiny shorts, Yuuri picks up the phone and quickly dials Yurio’s number. It takes two attempts before Yurio picks up, and even then he only answers at the last ring.

 

“Yurio, I need your help.” He whispers conspiratorially into the receiver.

 

“What do you want, Katsudon?” Yurio snaps. He sounds groggy. “It’s 10am on a Sunday and I didn’t want to be up until at least 12.”

 

Yuuri tries to sound apologetic when he speaks next. “It’s about Viktor.”

 

Yurio makes a frustrated noise. “When is it not?” Which is, Yuuri thinks, unfair. He talks about things other than Viktor.

 

“Does he ever…” Yuuri begins, considering his words. “Do laundry?”

 

“Oh no.” Yurio says, grim. “It’s laundry day, isn’t it?”

 

There’s that phrase again! It’s driving Yuuri mad. “He keeps saying that and I don’t know what it means!”

 

“It means,” Yurio explains, speaking to Yuuri slowly, as if he’s a child. “That Viktor has to spend all day to go through all his stupid complicated clothes and wash them all. It happens every three months. You really should have known this before you agreed to marry him, to be honest.”

 

The door clicks as Viktor returns, and Yuuri covers his mouth as he says “He’s back, I have to go.”

 

Yurio shoots off a quick and grumbled goodbye and tells Yuuri to “Sort out your mess of a fiancé, Katsudon” before Yuuri hangs up.

 

“Yuuri!” Viktor calls from the hallway. “I can’t carry all these clothes airers!”

 

After they have set up and loaded the several clothes airers in various corners of the apartment, Viktor starts mixing together various laundry products in a large tub.

 

“What’s that for?” Yuuri enquires when he peeks his head into the laundry, where he is beginning to think Viktor has decided to live for the foreseeable future.

 

Viktor scratches his head. “Oh, nothing.” He replies. Yuuri doesn’t believe him for a second.

 

“Come on,” He needles. “What’s the bucket for?”

 

There is an awkward pause before Viktor says “Stains…”, drawing out the vowel.

 

That piques Yuuri’s interest. “What kind of stains?”

 

Viktor’s expression looks remarkably similar to that of a startled rabbit. “Uh, you know. Just stains. Ordinary stains”

 

“Vitya, just spit it out.” Yuuri says, trying to sound stern. He isn’t sure if he succeeds.

 

Viktor stares off into a corner of the laundry, bucket of soaps momentarily forgotten. “It’s all the clothes we’ve stained… together.”

 

Yuuri is perplexed, not for the first time today. “You mean like, at dinners together?”

 

Viktor shakes his head. “No… When I…”

 

He waves his hand around his crotch, and Yuuri feels realization spread across his face.

 

“Ohh.” Yuuri says, and has to suppress a giggle.

 

He’s proud of all the times that he’s made Viktor come in his pants, but Viktor is always acts mortified each time it happens, like it’s some personal affront to his stamina or something. His uncharacteristic bashfulness around the subject is endearing. With an unshakable grin, Yuuri watches as Viktor places no less than twelve pairs of pants in the tub. After Viktor’s blush has subsided, he places a single shirt in the machine, presses a strange combination of buttons, and starts the cycle.

 

“That’s all you’re putting in? One shirt?” Yuuri exclaims, when he realizes Viktor isn’t going to put anything else in the machine.

 

“Yes. If I put anything else in with it, it’ll bruise.” Viktor says.

 

_Can shirts even bruise?_ Yuuri wonders. He rolls his eyes. “I’m going to go get lunch ready.”

 

It is not long before Yuuri realizes that there is nothing in their house that could constitute a meal. The entire contents of the cupboard amounts to three tins of asparagus, a jar of pickles, and a half empty bag of flour. Neither of them even eat tinned asparagus. Yuuri really needs to go grocery shopping, but he can’t drive in Russia yet, and Viktor can’t possibly leave the house in as little clothes as he is currently wearing. Yuuri stares at the barren cupboard for a few moments, before giving in and ordering take out.

 

Yuuri takes up residence on the couch with a few Russian exercises he has been working on. Eventually, Viktor drifts into the lounge room, with a heavy blanket wrapped around his shoulders. He drapes himself over Yuuri, and Yuuri yelps at the contact with Viktor’s ice cold feet.

 

“Vitya!” He chastises. “Cold feet!”

 

“You’re warm.” Viktor mumbles into Yuuri’s neck, and snuggles closer.

 

Yuuri gives up on working on Russian for at least until the food arrives, so he wraps his arms around Viktor and tries to rub some warmth into the frozen man.

 

After a while, when Viktor is sufficiently warm, the delivery person buzzes their bell, and Yuuri has to go get the food from downstairs. He returns, and they throw the blanket over their shoulders, before digging into the goulash Yuuri ordered.

 

“Is this from the Hungarian we go to? I love that place.” Viktor asks Yuuri.

 

Yuuri nods. “I know, you ask for it at least twice a week. It’s like you don’t even care about my cooking.” He teases.

 

Viktor pouts. “Oh, Yuuri, you know I love your cooking.” Viktor soothes. “You just can’t make goulash to save your life.”

 

Viktor finishes his food before Yuuri does, and bounces up to grab a notepad and pen. He starts writing furiously, and Yuuri balances his food on his knee so he can peer over Viktor’s shoulder to read.

 

_Sunday – blue sequined shirt, white McQueen jeans, duckling socks, black angora cardigan_

_Monday – sky blue Gucci silk shirt, tan Saint Laurent chinos, puppy socks_

 

“What are you doing?” Yuuri inquires, hooking his chin around Viktor’s shoulder.

 

“Making a list of clothes I want to wear most.” Viktor says, like this is a sensible thing that people other than pretentious fashion designers and literal models do. “I’ve been wanting to wear all these things but they’ve been dirty.”

 

“So,” Yuuri says, fully expecting his suggestion to make Viktor’s brain explode. “Wash them more than once every three months?”

 

Viktor clicks his tongue disparagingly. “Now, Yuuri, where’s the fun in that?”

 

Yuuri huffs, and leans back against the couch, only to notice that some of his goulash has spilt onto his shirt. It’s a pale blue striped one that Mari bought for him, and he doesn’t want it to stain, so he quickly puts the goulash on the table, shooting a glance at Makkachin to warn him not to touch the food, and whips his shirt over his head.

 

“I need to wash this, okay?” Yuuri tells Viktor.

 

“But I’m using the laundry!” Viktor protests. “There’s nowhere to wash it, the machine is full and I’m soaking in the sink.”

 

Right. “ _Stains_ ”.

 

“Can’t I move some stuff? This is going to be ruined if I let it dry.” Yuuri pleads. He really _does_ like this shirt.

 

“My shirts will warp if they’re taken out of the machine before it’s finished, and my jeans are soaking in the last of the denim detergent.” Viktor’s face scrunches as he considers. “Maybe… you could use the kitchen sink?” Viktor supplies.

 

Yuuri huffs again, but he doesn’t seem to have any other option. He loops past the laundry to grab some clothing soap and a brush, then hunches over the kitchen sink to scrub at his shirt. It’s hard work, and he has to put a lot more effort into it than if he had just been able to put his shirt in the washing machine like he usually would, but the food seems to be lifting after a while. When Yuuri is finally satisfied with his scrubbing, he wrings out the shirt and almost trips over an air dryer. When the shirt is drying and the clothing soap is back in its cupboard, Yuuri returns to his Russian.

 

The rest of the day passes like that – Yuuri staying as far away from Viktor’s strange clothes washing habits, and Viktor running up a truely frightening water bill. They eat dinner on the couch again, choosing fajitas for their less liquid nature and the lower risk of spills.

 

After they have finished, Yuuri finally voices the question that has been sitting on his mind for the entire day. “Why did you leave your washing for so long, anyway?”

 

Viktor hums, finding words for his answer. “It’s such a big undertaking. Everything needs to be washed in a special way, and I just put it off for as long as I can, I guess.” He explains. He has finally changed out of his ABBA video clip costume and into some clean pyjamas, and no longer looks like he is about to die from hypothermia.

 

“You know, in future,” Yuuri offers, not sure if he is going to regret saying this. “Maybe _I_ could wash your clothes? If you do something I don’t like, like call to organize hotel rooms, or remember to pay the electricity bill.”

 

Viktor turns Yuuri’s head to face him and cups his face in both hands. “Yuuri, I trust you with a lot of things. My life, my love, my career…” He says gently. “But my clothes are not one of those things.”

 

“I could wash your clothes!” Yuuri protests. “I could be good at it!”

 

Viktor pats Yuuri’s cheek. “Darling, no you couldn’t. You wash your woolen jumpers on the cotton cycle. Do you even know that there are other modes on the machine?”

 

Yuuri feels himself go red. “Not exactly…” He allows.

 

“Then leave my clothes to me, and we’ll be okay. Don’t let a little–”

 

“A lot.” Yuuri interrupts.

 

“A _little_ ,” Viktor stresses. “Clothes washing get between us.”

 

Viktor leans forward to press a kiss to Yuuri’s lips, tasting a bit of salsa in the corner of Yuuri’s mouth, and feels Yuuri relax against him.

 

“Besides,” Viktor whispers. “It’s nothing compared to how I get about the biannual refrigerator clean.”


End file.
